


you do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

by Waistcoat35



Series: they slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered [14]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Check the Author's Note for proper content warnings, Dancing, Fluff, Like there are references to events from the movie ft. period-typical homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Self-Loathing, Sorry I know the first two tags were fluffy, There is fluff later on I swear, This is so so much longer than I intended???, Thomas being the anxious bean I am, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24866224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waistcoat35/pseuds/Waistcoat35
Summary: "Can I have this dance?”
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Series: they slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772770
Comments: 16
Kudos: 51





	you do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

**Author's Note:**

> TW: period typical homophobia stuff (aka references to the arrest in the movie) almost-panic attack (not really but Thomas does freak out a bit) and discussion of Thomas attempting to push his own trauma-related boundaries and failing pretty miserably (maybe don't do that, kids). Also kind of past abuse references but sort of...vague-ish. Thomas has a whole elaborately wrapped bouquet of issues so like if you've read everything else in this series so far there's probably nothing too new here.

The first time they come close to it is a chilly day in March. It's a London day rather than a York one, meaning that the drinks have been watered down more than they would in your regular country pub, but they've both managed to achieve a pleasant, buzzing tipsiness nevertheless. Richard walks without really thinking about where he's leading them, through a few backalleys, until they're at the door. It's a club - not so dissimilar to the one Thomas had been into that summer when everything finally went right.

Maybe that's the problem.

When he turns to ask the question, he stops. Thomas has evidently figured out what kind of club it is. Richard sees it as the club Thomas went to after waiting for him. The one that led to them knowing the right things about one another to lead to this. Thomas, though, evidently sees it as the club he got - God, Richard's been an idiot - _arrested_ in. His jaw's gone a little bit tight, the relaxed saunter he'd had gone - he looks like maybe he's trying not to bite his lip. He's frightened.

Richard's seen him frightened before - countless times. It's a given, when they're in the vast sea of this thing between them and Thomas has only just gotten the hang of learning how to swim, finally stopped his panicked flailing so that Richard could hold his head above the waterline and point out the map of stars reflected in the sea. But in this case those stars are too bright and soon, and he's not had that look so much lately, so seeing him looking like a crouching thing getting ready to bolt still hits Richard hard. His eyes flicker up the steps towards the door, the source of the muffled music - and back to Richard. And he looks like he trusts him, oddly enough. Like he's not sure what to do or think, and Richard might know the answer. And Richard doesn't know, exactly, but he knows that he is not the sort of person to goad, to coax - he's not going to persuade Thomas to go in, because it is too clear that he doesn't want to. Even if he doesn't know it himself, his body language does - or, at least, it knows wariness.

Richard turns fully, and he walks back over. Moonlight barely peeks over a distant building and douses the crown of Thomas' head, a dark shape silhouetted against a dark sidestreet. "We don't have to," he murmurs. "Anything you want. Anywhere you want to go, anything you want to do, and that's what we'll do. We don't have to be here." Thomas still looks unsure, chin dipped, but he no longer looks like a string pulled taut to snap.

"Don't have to go, either," he says, as if he didn't quite believe in the words even before he said them. "What about what you want to do?"

"What I want to do," Richard says, "is to have a nice evening with you."

"Exactly," Thomas starts, as if he hadn't flinched after Richard's words, just minutely. "So I don't mind if you want to-"

"A nice evening," Richard interrupts, for once not too apologetic about it, "simply entails spending it with you, in any way, shape or form. And the second condition to it's being a nice evening is that it's nice for _both_ of us." _You silly goose_ \- it's on the tip of his tongue, one of many fond monikers, but he pulls it back gently, because Thomas is already second-guessing, already feels like he's being silly, and it's not the right time to be told so again even in jest.

"S'pose we both thought we'd enjoy a spot of car theft, then," Thomas says, eyebrows and mouth all pencilled lines, "you'd qualify it as a nice evening?"

Richard raises both eyebrows as if in consideration. "If that's what you're proposing, I suppose I did say _anything_ you wanted to do."

Thomas snorts, shoves lightly at his shoulder. "As if you would. Your mum'd be mad."

"You say that as if it's the main reason I'm not a car thief."

"Because it....probably is."

"Oi!" He exclaims, and just like that the tension has loosened its grip.

They turn around and head for his flat, the moonlight bright as it was that summer, painting Thomas' features in the same way as it had when they'd walked back together, the same way it had before _fifty years ago, who'd have thought a man could fly_ , and the same way it had after it. Richard wonders if he'll always have this aching, giddy thing inside his chest whenever he looks at him - some say that kind of thing is temporary, but it's been some years now, and he doesn't think it is. Sometimes it'll swell in him until there's a burning behind his eyes even though there's nothing to cry about, and he thinks that when he'd been young and silly and reading books about love this is what they'd all been talking about, because there's nobody else in the world who's made him feel like that without it being due to sadness, who's made him feel as if he could be patient all the years of his life for things that might not even come.

They step inside the door, and Thomas' mouth has that tight little furl to it again, like he's still upset about something and hating himself for not just being happy - Richard can practically hear the words doing laps in Thomas' head like an overeager racehorse, like the hound that Thomas, the fox, is trying impossibly to escape from. He waits until their coats are off and the kettle's on, and they're sitting on the sofa. "Come on. What is it?" Thomas swallows with a click, as if he'd been hoping he wouldn't be caught if he hoped hard enough.

"M'sorry." It comes out quickly, like he'd forced it before it could skitter too far back out of his reach. Richard tentatively snakes an arm around his shoulders.

"What on earth for, love?" He can count all the things Thomas might _think_ he should be sorry for, but as for things he _actually_ should - he's coming up as empty-handed as Orpheus from the Underworld. Thomas sighs, and he sounds tired of himself.

"Because I always - _do_ this. The getting scared, the anxiousness, the - needing you to turn around and come back and _coddle_ me, for fuck's sake," he spits the last part, and even though the acid of it isn't aimed at Richard he flinches _-_ not from Thomas, but _for_ him. For the fury he directs at himself so often, for the smallest things.

"I wouldn't call reassurance coddling, Thomas."

"Well, what else'd you call it, then, because I seem to demand it often enough, don't I." The words are dull, and if not for Thomas' already-there resentment of needing things like this, he'd probably be hugging him by now.

"Thomas - you don't _demand_ anything. You barely even _ask_ for anything." He looks away.

"Whatever it is, I just - wish I could stop acting so _scared_ , all the bloody time." Richard slowly shakes his head, even though it can't be seen.

"If I'd put up with half the things you have, I think I'd be terrified of everything."

"Basically am, aren't I."

"I don't think so." Thomas looks at him, disbelieving, but somewhat hopeful.

"You don't?" He shakes his head again. Then he has to get up, because the kettle's whistling and he doesn't want his neighbours after him, but not before squeezing Thomas' shoulder and getting a small answering smile.

He can wait, even it it's for forever. Even if Thomas' fear never completely leaves him.

* * *

The second time is in August. It's in London again, but without the drinks - they've had dinner out for their second anniversary, as usual, and a glass each to go with it, but that's all, and so Richard's expecting it even less when, once they're far enough out of earshot, Thomas nudges him. "Why don't you take me there again," he murmurs. "That place a few streets away, from last time." Richard wants to ask more questions, find out if he's sure - but Thomas has that steely, determined look of his, that's shiver-inducing and endearing in equal measure, and he doesn't like being second-guessed at times like that, so Richard leads the way. Thomas barely hesitates at the door, somehow, and soon they're in, among the lights and the noise and the laughter, and it's nice. Except when Thomas had recounted the first time - _I'd never seen anything like it, Rich, honestly, not in thirty six years_ \- Richard could imagine the wonderstruck look on his face, had been almost-hoping to see it for himself, but Thomas' expression has barely changed. However, that means the resolve is still there in his eyes, and when Thomas has decided he's going to do something there is very little that can persuade him otherwise.

There's a little bar set up, so they have a drink or two, but it does little to ease things - first Thomas had drummed his fingers on the counter, and now, having realised that Richard could see it, is tapping his foot against the leg of his stool, hoping, apparently, it will do better at going unnoticed. But Richard is no idiot, and he knows what it means. He's a fidgeter by nature, and when he's anxious, he goes still, goes rigid - in contrast, when Thomas is anxious and trying not to be, his normally still frame fidgets. He bounces a knee, he taps a pencil against a desk, he does anything to get rid of the sudden overflow of nervous energy. (This is different to when he's anxious and trying not to _look_ it - then he freezes as if it will make him go invisible. If he cares more about getting _rid_ of the anxiety, though, the fidgeting wins out.)

People are dancing, in the middle of the room, where somebody's slung some lights up. Jazz music, as it often is, pootles from the gramophone, just a hint too sharp, sounding the way looking at something a few inches too far to the right feels. He wouldn't normally mind so much, just happy for the decent drinks and the fact he can drop the mask a little bit, but now he's thinking of all the things about it that might irritate Thomas, might rankle his nerves, and he notices them all. Then, though, Thomas is out of his seat, and his hand is at Richard's elbow, which always makes him go a bit stumbly if he's honest, and he's being led to the dance floor. Not roughly or forcefully, but hastily enough that he knows it's just another distraction. The music's still too sharp, their postures wrong, as if neither is sure who's leading and who's following, and Thomas smiles but it's aimed somewhere just beyond Richard's shoulder, and he won't meet Richard's eyes.

Thomas can't look him in the eye. And that's how he knows. Because when he looks Thomas in the eye he can see all his soul and more besides, and Thomas knows it too.

"Come on," he says, gentle but firm. "I don't think it's the right night for this, yet." Thomas, of course, has to be stubborn again, as always - his darling thing.

"But I wanted to-"

"That's the thing," Richard intercepts. "If that was the case then I'd be more than happy to stay, but I'm really not sure that you do. Want to, that is." He catches Thomas' eye just for a moment, and something is flickering there. He looks as though he might protest again, but a door slams - just one of the barhands fetching another crate, not the police, not anyone bursting in who shouldn't be - and Richard feels it through his bones as Thomas does a little jump. They're still in the middle of the dancers, in the way, and they should probably move, but Thomas is frozen to the spot against him after the slam of the door ( _don't look at me don't see me I'm not here don't see me_ ) and Richard runs a palm down his spine, once, twice, until Thomas can meet his gaze. 

"Alright," Thomas relents, and he suddenly looks exhausted- "alright, then, alright. Let's go. If you want to. Might as well." Richard nods, guides them out of the small crowd, fetches their coats. He does, in the upside, get to help Thomas into his and button it up with gentle hands against his chest and not care so much about whether anyone is watching them. Briefly cups Thomas' cheekbone, and is irrationally pleased when he leans into it for a moment. They leave swiftly, Richard so that he can get to the bottom of this and Thomas out of worry that they'll be caught, be arrested, be split apart again. 

"Thomas," Richard breathes into the lukewarm, tea-steam night air, "what was all that about then, hmm?" He sounds coaxing, which he knows gets on Thomas' nerves sometimes, but he isn't quite sure how to do this until he knows what's wrong, so it'll have to do."

"You know what it was about," comes the sullen mumble. "Same as last time. Me being fucking ridiculous. Acting like a coward." 

"Hey," Richard says, and it comes out sharp with protectiveness, "don't say that. Don't you say that, d'you hear me?" Thomas seems confused by his ire, and he shouldn't be - Richard's always hated it when he talks like this about himself. "You're not a coward, Thomas. You're not. You never could be."

"Could've fooled me. All I do's run away from things." 

Richard shakes his head. "That doesn't make you any kind of coward. You've -" he sighs, clogged up, unsure how to form the words even though there are so many of them waiting to get out. "You've been through so many things, for such a long time. And no matter how many bad situations you've been in, you've gotten through them. You've gotten out. There's more than one way to be brave, Thomas - sometimes it means staying and sticking difficult things out, and sometimes it just means surviving until you find a way out of it. But either way, think of how many times you've been frightened, and you've gotten through it anyway. Sometimes that means running away, because at the end of it bravery's just doing what we must to get by." The set of both their shoulders is slumped, both tired out from the conversation already, but Thomas seems less withdrawn than before - less of him's folded back into himself. 

"Is that so, Mr Ellis?" Thomas' voice has a playful lilt, but it's worn as well, and he's not sure if it's from tiredness or familiarity. He nods, firmly.

"It is." 

"Shame, though," Thomas says as they walk. "I already took away your chance to be the first bloke to ask me to dance. Would've been nice if I could've kept from flying off the handle in there for long enough that you could be the second." And in a flash of clarity, Richard realises that that's what this is about - or some of it, at least. 

"Thomas," and, God, the amount of words to describe all the ways he's said that name could fill up a brand new dictionary, "please don't think of it like that. I don't want it to be like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you have to...make it up to me, somehow. Like going off to that club was the greatest disservice I've ever been done. It's not like that. Or, at least, I don't _see_ it like that." 

"But I still shouldn't have gone. It was far from doing right by you. And a poor way to repay you asking me there. Not to mention a poor use of your evening, getting me back." 

Richard tries not to show it, but from the uptick of his eyebrows and the higher note in his voice he doesn't think he's doing a good job of hiding his distress. "What we have, what we've got - it isn't a _transaction,_ Thomas. It's not some kind of system where things have to be repaid, or debts need to be remembered, because there aren't any debts. I forgave you for leaving the pub a long time ago, and as for coming and getting you out - that never needed forgiving in the first place. If you really want to do right by me, I'd suggest you do it by not pushing yourself into situations you're clearly terrified of in order to make me happy." He finishes, and tries to get his breath back as he studies Thomas' face for a reaction (studying Thomas' face is not, in fact, the best thing to do while already recovering from breathlessness, but it's all he's got right now). They reach the flat, then, and he gives Thomas time to collect his thoughts while he fumbles with the key and lets them in, shucks his coat and hangs it carefully, and goes to help Thomas out of his only to find he's already managed it, which stings a little.

Thomas looks - ashamed, for one. There's a sort of droop to him, now, and his head is lowered, and Richard waits and prays he hasn't messed things up. "I am sorry, then. Because I know it's - I know we're not like that. That you're not like that. I ought to, by now." 

"It takes time, love."

"Still. It's been two years, and you've been good to me. Enough that I should be more sure of things by now." Richard shakes his head.

"You know that's not how it works. Some time and a person being nice to you isn't always the only thing you need to feel sure again. And even if it is, you often need more than two years, I'd imagine." He gets a soft sigh, in return. "You don't need to be sorry, is my point. You can't rush things like that. And the same goes for that night - I was late, and you barely knew me. You assumed that perhaps I wasn't even coming - you were unsure of me. And you had every right to be. If it were me waiting in there for hours, looking like a fool, I wouldn't have wanted to stay any longer either." 

He gets a look in return that is at least one part disbelieving. Thomas looks up at him from the corner of his eye. "You're too hard on yourself, and not nearly enough on me, do you know that." 

Richard gives up on resisting the urge to put his arms around Thomas, and pulls them together. "I don't, actually, because it's not true. You deserve to be treated well and that's that."

"Well..." Thomas does a little smile, a huff, looks away, the same self-deprecating glance he'd done after _is that what you've found, Mr Barrow? A friend?_

Richard looks at him sternly. "I mean it, you do. Now - do we have an agreement?"

"On what?"

He looks Thomas in the eye again, tries to summon some of the determination he'd seen in Thomas earlier. "No going and doing things you don't want to do because you think it'll make someone else happy - not even me."

Thomas looks resigned, but he nods. "Fine, then. I didn't mean to worry you."

"Don't be sorry for worrying me, just be sorry that you put yourself through that."

"I'll think about it." Richard sighs. Sometimes, getting Thomas to take care of himself is a bit like a neverending game of table tennis where anything he says will rebound.

"If I may ask - what is it, specifically, that makes you uneasy about going there? Or - to places like that in general?"

"Why's it matter?"

"So that I don't make you feel that way again, inadvertently."

"If you must know, it's just - _because_ of last time. Because of what happened, at the end, when they rounded us all up and carted us off - it could happen again. So easily. You know that as well as me." Richard nods, conceding the point. "I got lucky last time - you were there. But that won't always be the case. And if you're there too then we've nobody to pull any tricks to get us out." As much as Thomas had been pale and quiet on the drive back from York after leaving the police station, Richard hadn't quite realised for some time how much of an effect it has had on him. But the last few hours have been very enlightening, and he still remembers the weighted tremble of birdlike limbs under his hands, how Thomas had frozen in the middle of that warehouse.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that."

Thomas attempts a half-hearted shrug. "Was two years ago, wasn't it. Exactly, in fact."

"Things like that don't always fade with time." In return he gets a vague 'mm'-ing sound that means Thomas agrees and is reluctant to admit it. "I can see how that'd frighten you. And like I said - if you _want_ to go again, we can, when you're good and ready. But as much as it'd be nice, it makes no difference to me as long as we're spending time together." Thomas allows himself to be pulled closer and starts kissing Richard's neck, so he probably approves.

* * *

The third time is in November. It is, once again, in London, but they haven't been anywhere, on account of the torrential rain that's plagued the weekend. Instead they're spending the time indoors in Richard's flat, drinking copious amounts of tea (Thomas has a bit of a coffee fix, usually, but too long spent in close proximity to Richard tends to make him drowsy and content, and thus the extra caffeine would not be needed, nor would it be particularly welcome) and subsisting on whatever leftovers and meals Richard can cobble together. (Borne of a desire to not burn his flat down - Thomas won't leave him alone long enough for him to pay attention to how long things have been cooking, enough said - this has been supplemented by several trips to the bakery down the street from him, which, although it's gone unsaid, is perhaps one of Thomas' favourite places in the world. Or at least in England - he _has_ sung the praises of that Italian restaurant he frequented when accompanying Lord Grantham to America rather highly.)

Richard has just finished a rather good book about a conwoman who takes in an equally cunning orphan, which he knows Thomas will find thoroughly entertaining, and though he had originally meant to just lend it to him, since they're both here and staying inside he's spent the last several hours on the sofa, lying horizontally with his back propped up, legs bent slightly to make room for Thomas. Thomas has decided the best possible place to be is lying on top of Richard, back to Richard's chest with Richard's right arm wrapped around him, or occasionally stroking his hair, while Richard holds the book open with his left to read it aloud. (They had, in fact, after many sad sounds from Thomas when he realised Richard couldn't hold him and stroke his hair simultaneously with one hand, attempted things another way - by having Thomas hold the book open and high enough for Richard to read from while Richard took up his hugging and hair-stroking duties. This, however, had been dismissed as hopeless when Richard had given Thomas a gentle scratch at the base of his skull and he had both shivered and promptly dropped the book, an occurrence which continued and eventually led to them reverting to the original tactic. When Thomas gets over his shyness he can be extraordinarily demanding in the physical affection department. It is, Richard thinks, absolutely delightful.)

So far Thomas has indeed enjoyed the book immensely, and whenever there's an amusing turn of phrase, he chuckles, the sound reverberating through his ribcage like a cat's purr, and Richard feels it from his position behind him. It's the best part - even better than the book itself and all the rest of it. However, a side-effect of Richard holding Thomas to his chest and propping his chin on top of Thomas' head for several hours is made evident when Thomas does a soft yawn and a full-body, truly catlike stretch. "I think," he says, "we'd best do something else before I nod off. It's only nine, after all."

"Seems like a reasonable time to sleep, if you want to." Thomas shakes his head.

"It's working at the house that does it. You get used to going to bed at a certain late hour, and trying to earlier on fudges it all up." Once again Richard internally remarks on Thomas' dear little turns of phrase, and then he externally remarks on it too.

"Fudges?" He asks, one eyebrow quirked playfully.

"Fudges." Thomas confirms, deadly serious - or, at least, he looks it, but Richard can see the twinkle in his eyes whether Thomas knows it or not. In the end, he gets up to make another cup of tea and to prevent himself from actually melting, because this _man_ \- _Jesus_. They sit back down and sip their tea for a bit, and eventually, Thomas puts his cup on the sidetable and gets up. "Wait there," he requests, so Richard obeys - only to hear the crackling of the gramophone before Thomas returns. He hasn't even figured out which song's playing yet - one of his jazz records, judging from the piano - when Thomas is holding a hand out to him invitingly, looking hopeful and only a little bit nervous.

'Can I have this dance, Mr Ellis?" He has little dimples when he smiles, doesn't he, Richard muses in a daze. Then he shakes himself out of his stupor and takes Thomas' hand eagerly, lets himself be pulled up. It's not proper dancing, even, for a while - it's not a terribly slow song, and neither of them feels obliged to attempt a faster dance, so they just do a few steps forward and a few back, neither leading or following, Richard's right hand carefully clasped around Thomas' left, cradling it almost, while Richard's left hand is at Thomas' right hip. They've taken their shoes off, so any stepping on toes will be less painful, and Thomas' free hand is on Richard's left shoulder. He's looking up at Richard with nothing short of adoration, and it fits well on him, sarcasm briefly slipping off so he can wear his love for Richard like a second skin, and what's more, Richard finds he loves both sides of the coin equally. He croons along to the lyrics, making Thomas grin with how much slower than the singer he is, but the smile softens at the words.

_"Yes sir, that's my baby  
No sir, I don't mean maybe  
Yes sir, that's my baby now  
Yes, ma'am, we've decided  
No ma'am, we won't hide it."_

_"Can I have this dance?”_

**Author's Note:**

> This was kind of a mess and I can't decide if I like it so like...sorry for that
> 
> In other words, a lot of the last few of these have been Richard saying the prompt phrase so we'll try to get some more Thomas in next time!! Since doing 'the land, the lie, the shape of things' I've gotten more used to doing Richard's POV which is part of the reason but the other part is that Thomas has been treated like shit for most of his life so when given the chance to have Richard treat him like a prince by GOD I will take it
> 
> Also if a line makes it sound indirectly like they did sex things they probably did but I'm too awkward to write it bye
> 
> Also I did one bit of research this time! Look, you know I don't care about accuracy for these but I did want to have a period-accurate and sappy song for them, so the song at the end is 'Yes Sir, That's My Baby' by Blossom Seeley
> 
> Also also if you like the sound of the book they're reading it's Crooked Heart by Lissa Evans which wasn't actually published until the late 2010s but I used that one bc I haven't read enough classics to pick one for them to read and bc I loved Crooked Heart and want you all to read it. Go on. Shoo. Go get it for 99p on kindle.


End file.
